The ever jingling bells only stop when we do, falling quiet as a disciplined choir at rest, waiting dutifully for the next note of the troika, the baton and the whip raised and ready. But we rest here for a moment, silent in the snow as more drifts down to cover our tracks, like a downpour of feathering grace, wiping out the meandering misdemeanours of our errant rails. And the way ahead, so pure and full of promise, glistening in the Light of the World now to come among us, is calling, beckoning bright and full of Christmas cheer.
Right here, right now in this moment between worlds, the pause before the new beginning crescendos, like a swollen belly breathing deep through the pain, resting on the straw floor of an inn. There is a faint tinkling, the angels inhale, a slight sensation of movement readies us, and so it begins.
©Keren Dibbens-Wyatt 2015